Posts Tagged ‘american indians’

The Coureurs-De-Bois

I have now been forty-two years in this country. For twenty-four of those years I was a light canoeman. I required but little sleep, but sometimes got less than I required. No portage was too long for me; all portages were alike. My end of the canoe never touched the ground till I saw the end of it. Fifty songs a day were nothing to me. I could carry, paddle, walk and sing with any man I ever saw. I pushed on – over rapids, over cascades, over chutes; all were the same to me. No water, no weather ever stopped the paddle or the song. I was once possessed of five horses and six running dogs trimmed in the first style. I was then like a bourgeois, rich and happy. I wanted for nothing. Five hundred pounds twice told have passed through my hands, although now I have not a spare shirt to my back nor a penny to buy one. Yet, were I young I should glory in commencing the same career. I would spend another half-century in the same fields of enjoyment. There is no life so happy as a voyageur’s life; none so independent; no place where a man enjoys so much variety and freedom as in the Indian country. Huzza, huzza! Pour le pays sauvage!

(As told to a Hudson Bay interviewer)

Posted by fuck0500 in Canoeing, Maine Life, Trapping

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Natural Highways of the Woods

Fur Trapper

 

All my life people have been telling me you shouldn’t travel alone. But it’s interesting; I’ve never been told that by anybody who’s ever done it. - Bill Mason

Years ago there was a large tract of land that I liked to hunt – I liked it in part because it was bordered on all sides by woods roads, so one could effectively never take a wrong turn, as long as you could walk in a straight line, you would eventually find your way out.  It allowed me to wander rather aimlessly without having to worry about sense of direction.  However, I began to notice that invariably I would walk past the same places each time I was there.  Deliberately I would enter through a different location each time, and yet once my mind wandered a bit I would begin noticing the same areas once again, which taught me about funneling.  There are lots of studies and evidence that says in the absence of sun, landmarks, blindfolded, or in darkness people have a tendency to walk in circles, and while that may be true (I have certainly experienced that on a boat in the fog) I believe that if you turn someone loose in a vast tract of wilderness, they tend to walk along “funnels”.  And wildlife do the same thing – which is why there are typically particular “crossings” where you tend to see the most wildlife. 

When I asked a  friend of  mine who has professionally trapped marten for much of his life how I could spot a crossing or funnel his answer was that he couldn’t describe it to me, but he could show it to me.  His journals show that the landscape naturally lends itself to certain routes of travel, and that these routes have held true over many years, even if areas were logged.  There is a good story that he tells; he will sometimes take out of state people out on the trapline so they can experience what it is like, and one time he had a fellow from New Jersey riding with him, who said that he wanted to chose the spot where they next put in a set.  Jerry said no problem, and in short order the guest said that he wanted to stop and make a set. He asked Jerry if he thought it was a good spot, and Jerry said that it wasn’t, but the guest said he wanted to set it anyway, and they did.  Jerry, with a caveat to the listener that he was just having fun with the guy at this point, drove 200 yards down the road and said “this is the spot”, and set the location.  And sure enough, when checking the sets the next day, Jerry’s spot produced a double of marten, a mere 200 yards from where the guest placed his sets, and upon this discovery the guest said that never again would he ever doubt Jerry’s word.  And that’s how legends are formed.   It’s interesting that if you walk a certain stretch of woods each day, you begin to notice the subtle changes that happen – bent grass or perhaps a bit of fur on a branch that wasn’t there the day before.  I think our ancestors were much more in tune with the world, and used the natural lay of the land for ease of travel before the days of epirbs, cell phones, gps, or even compasses.  That’s why the Native American names for places  were much more meaningful than those of today – such as Passadumkeag, which means above the gravel bar, and describes the section of the Penobscot River where it meets the Passadumkeag river.  And wildlife know them too – I came across an otter track once in the middle of nowhere, far from any source of water.  I took a couple of days and followed it in both directions, finding the water where it came from, and where it was heading too, a distance of some 10 miles apart.   I think the old ways of the woodsmen are somewhat lost today – being able to extricate yourself from any sort of situation, knowing where you are, and relating that to the surrounding country around you.  I enjoyed seeing the old barely discernable  marks on the trees whenThe Old Man  from the sand pit took me along the old hunting path – a path my Grandfather used, and his grandfather before him.  In those days people knew where they were in the woods, much as people today know where they are by what road they are on.  It’s just a matter of learning the subtle clues and signs of the path you are traveling.

 

Posted by fuck0500 in Hunting, Maine Life, Trapping

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The Passadumkeag River

The Lovely Rivers And Lakes Of Maine
by George B.Wallis

O, The lovely rivers and Lakes of Maine!
I am charmed with their names, as my song will explain;
Aboriginal muses  inspire my strain,
While I sing the bright rivers and lakes of  Maine-
From Cupsuptic to Cheputmatticook
From Sagadahock to Pohenegamook-
‘gamook, ‘gamook, Pohenegamook,
From Sagadahock to Pohenegamook.
For light serenading the “Blue Moselle”,
“Bonnie Doon” and “Sweet Avon” may do  very well;
But the rivers of Maine, in their wild solitudes,
Bring a  thunderous sound from the depth of the woods:

The Aroostook and  Chimmenticook,
The Chimpanaoc and Chinquassabamtook-
‘bamtook, ‘bamtook,  Chinquassabamtook,
The Chimpassoc and Chinquassabamtook,
Behold how they  sparkle and flash in the sun!
The Mattewamkeag and the Mussungun;
The kingly Penobscot, the wild Woolastook,
Kennebec, Kennebago and Sebasticook;
The pretty Presumpscut and gay Tulanbic;
The Ess’quilsagook and little  Schoodic-
Schoodic, Schoodic; The little Schoodic;
The Ess’quilsagook  and little Schoodic.

Yes, Yes, I prefer the bright rivers of  Maine,
To the Rhine or the Rhone or the Saone or the Seine;
These may do  for the Cockney, but give me some nook,
On the Ammonoosuc or the  Wytopadiook.
On the Umsaskis or the Ripogenis,
The Ripogenis or the  Piscataquis-
‘aguis, ‘aguis,
The Piscataguis. “Away down South,” the  Cherokee
Has named his river the Tennessee,
The Chattahoochee and the  Ocmulgee,
The Congaree and the Ohoopee;
But what are they, or the  Frenchy Detroit,

To the Passadumkeag or the Wassatoquoit-
‘toquoit, ‘toquoit, The Wassatoquoit,
To the Passadumkeag or the  Wassatoquoit-
Then turn to the beautiful lakes of Maine
To the Sage of  Auburn be given the strain,
The statesman whose genius and bright fancy,  makes
The earth’s highest glories to shine in its lakes;
What lakes out  of Maine can we place in the book
With the Matagomon and the Pangokomook
”ommok, ‘ommok, The Pangokomook,
With the Matagomon and the  Pangokomook?
Lake Leman, or Como, what care I for them,

When  Maine has the Moosehead and Pangokwahem,
And, sweet as the dews in the  violet’s kiss,
Wallahgosqueqamook and Telesimis;
And when I can share in  the fisherman’s bunk
On the Moosetuckmaguntic or Mol’tunkamunk?
And  Maine has the Eagle Lakes, Cheppawagan,

And the little Sepic and the little  Scapan,
The spreading Sebago, the Congomgomoc,
The Milliemet and  Motesoinloc,
Caribou and the fair Anmonjenegamook,
Oquassaac and rare  Wetokenebacook-
‘acook, ‘accook

Oquassac and rare  Wetokenebacook.
And there are the Pokeshine and Patquongomis;
And there  is the pretty Coscomgonnosis,
The Pemadumook and the old Chesuncook,
Sepois and Mooseleuk; and take care not to miss
The Umbazookskus or the  Sysladobsis.
‘dobsis, ‘dobsis, The Sysladobsis.

O, Give me the rivers  and lakes of Maine
In her mountains or forests or fields of grain,
In  the depth of the shade or the blaze of the sun,
The lakes of Schoodic and  the Basconegun,
And the dear Waubasoos and the clear Aquessuc,
The  Cosbosecontic and Millenkikuk-
‘kikuk, ‘kikuk, The Millenkikuk,
The  Cosbosecontic and Millenkikuk!

Transcribed by Janice  Farnsworth

“The rivers of Maine, in their wild solitudes, bring a thunderous sound from the depth of the woods.”     The places of the wild solitudes shrink every year yet  the Passadumkeag and the other rivers of  Maine still have them.  You can still canoe around a corner on a misty morning, gliding by the steaming banks to surprise a moose, or a bear, or have your fishing line tighten with the bite of a wild brook trout.

Before the highways and byways of our time, waterways were used for travel, and America’s history is full of tales of the rivers used for travel and trade.

When you look at a topographic map of Maine, you can begin to easily pick out the routes that our forebears used to travel from one place to another. The Passadumkeag River’s translation to the native tongue means above the gravel bar, and is named for a distinct gravel bar in the Penobscot River. That gravel bar is an old river highway exit sign when traveling upstream. The Passadumkeag River was a very important route as it allowed for easterly travel. The Native American language also incorporates an easy way for you to tell whether or not the river is hard or easy to paddle by the name itself. If the river is relatively easy to paddle, it has a “keag” at the end – such as Passadumkeag, Mattawamkeag, and Kenduskeag. If the river is hard to paddle it has a “hunk” at the end such as Nesowadnehunk, Madunkehunk, and O’zwazo-ge-hunk streams. Interestingly the translation of O’zwazo-ge-hunk is “when they come by here they wade their canoes”. So, the Native American names for rivers and lakes in Maine are not named randomly – they all have a specific meaning, worth looking up if you can before attempting a first paddle. My experience with the Passadumkeag begins where the entrance of Cold Stream enters the river a few miles up from Route 2. The river is flat, calm, and deep here and has a marshy/boggy area that extends some distance on either side. Paddling up Cold Stream is fun as well, winding through the marsh. I have yet to paddle down, but someday I want to paddle the length of the stream from Cold Stream Pond down to the Passadumkeag, I think it would be a great paddle.

Last year while slowly paddling and trolling upriver there was quite a disturbance on the bank to my right. I watched for a bit as the commotion continued, and got a glimpse of what I thought was an otter. I whistled and gave a little call out, and shortly a mother otter appeared, steaming across the water with two babies rapidly following her right towards the canoe! They got close enough for me to get a little nervous and she alternated between whistling and hissing at us. She and the young would swim far out, and then back again to the boat, vocalizing all the while. I pulled up my line, and when she would go under, I would give chase, stopping when she came up. We then alternated, and I would paddle away fast with her giving chase. Finally they tired of the fun and swam off downriver in search of other adventures. Otters are such curious creatures – their curiousity is quite similar , in my opinion, to that of a cat, if not more so. My friend Peter once saw one playing with a stray balloon on a stream in the middle of nowhere.

I’ve also seen some large moose roaming the banks in the summer time, and found it interesting that back in the day the Passadumkeag “had some of the best hunting in Maine.” It certainly is teeming with wildlife.

I learned something new when I was looking at things to write about the Passadumkeag. On the knoll that overlooks the Passadumkeag and Cold Stream confluence there is a small farm (Hathaway Farm) and there is also an old cemetery there, references for the cemetery and history of the region can be found here, here, and here.  Take the time to scroll down and through the last link – it’s a good read.

 

And interestingly in reading about the cemetery there on the hill they talk about the “Red Paint People”, a mystery in and of itself. The Red Paint People flourished between 3,000 and 10,000 BC and were found from Labrador to New York on the coasts and rivers. For their time, they had elaborate burial ceremonies and used Red Ochre to paint shrouds and gravesites. Olamon stream, which is very close to the Passadumkeag and also flows into the mighty Penobscot translates to “Red Paint” and is known for its naturally occurring Red Ochre. They used tools, but did not have pottery or metal. They fished the Passadumkeag before the pyramids of Egypt were even built. They are somewhat of a mystery because they seem to have disappeared without much of a trace, other than their elaborate burial ceremonies and leaving lots of speculation as to what happened.

I find it very fascinating that a cemetery used by the Red Paint people is overlooking my little piece of the Passadumkeag River where I love to go fishing, and apparently where people have loved to go fishing since 10,000 BC. Now that’s transcending history!

Posted by fuck0500 in Canoeing, Fishing, Hunting, Maine Life

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Tales of An Empty Cabin

Tu es mon compagnon de voyage!
Je veux mourir dans mon canot
Sur le tombeau, près du rivage,
Vous renverserez mon canot!

When I must leave the great river
O bury me close to its wave
And let my canoe and my paddle
Be the only mark over my grave.

Translated by Oliver Call.

 

I can’t recall for sure where I first came across the book Tales of an Empty Cabin, written by Grey Owl. It was possibly just a random book search. I’m glad I did though, because it is a remarkable book, and extremely well written. Grey Owl’s entire life was a bit of an enigma. The world first heard of him through his writing, and then eventually speeches that he was asked to give. To the world he presented himself as a Native American who had an Apache mother and moved to Canada to join the Ojibwa and first was a wilderness fur trapper, who then turned conservationist. His writing is very pervasive, romantic, and tugs at the heartstrings. For me the pendulum swung the other way – I started out as a conservationist, swung to a trapper, and now things are evening out between the two. Time will tell where that ends up for me.  If you choose to read the book, keep in mind the time frame that it was written. In the early 1900’s beaver populations were drastically reduced due to exploitation. With the benefit of conservation laws, seasons, and limits, the beaver population is back with a vengeance. Here in Maine current laws are very liberal for the taking of beaver as the state has a large population. I believe that the ambivalence lies within all who take to the woods to some degree, and the pendulum can swing fast or slow in the process. Certainly reading Grey Owls account of listening to the mate of the beaver they had shot calling out through the night for its mate is very emotional.   In the story one of the people in the traveling party kills a beaver, and during the night they hear it’s mate calling out for it.  The member of the party sleeping next to Grey Owl asks what that noise is, and Grey Owl dismisses it to him as nothing.  But he knows what it is.

Trappers understand animals and their habits more than anybody, and it’s often hard to explain the conundrum of being able to empathize and befriend a creature of the wild whilst running a trapline for another. I guess I can empathize somewhat more with the coyote with mange, or the beaver with mallocclusion. Beaver, like other rodents have teeth that continuously grow, and they need to gnaw to keep them sharp, and the correct length. Mallocclusion is when one becomes out of alignment, or grows past the point where the beaver can gnaw it back, and the creature is left unable to eat, and sometimes the teeth grow long enough to puncture the skull. I’ve seen it.

My favorite story in the book is The Tree. The author describes in great detail the very long life of a tree, from when a squirrel accidentally dropped a nut on the ground, to the deer browsing it’s neighbors, the rabbit eating its bark, and the moose using it for sparring practice. It goes on to describe the native American that visited it, the white man that explored it, and the road coming through that killed it. It is a fantastic story that puts a lot of life and time into perspective for me.

Grey Owl is most famous for his cabin at Ajaawan Lake, where a beaver house was incorporated into the cabin, and he was made Honorary Warden for the protection of the beaver colony. The story is in the book, and is a well regaled account of the daily activities of the beaver, who were allowed to roam the cabin. It is also probably the first case study of its kind on beaver behavior. I love the stories of the beaver tetter-tottering around the cabin on their rear legs carrying mud for the lodge, of how the male would become aggressive and jealous of the author when the female would come into heat, and the stories of chairs and other woodwork being eaten and chewed in the authors absence. It must have been some interesting times, and it is great to be able to share them in the book.

Grey Owl never made it to his 50th birthday. For someone that passed so young, he had an incredible life. After his death, the enigma of his life was discovered. He was born in England in 1888, and had no Native American ties at all,  a fraud that dented the conservation movement he had created, but certainly did not change what he did, or his experiences.  It’s just who he wanted to be, and what he became.

Here is a video of Grey Owl, his cabin, and the beavers – I wish I could hear the real sounds in the video, the narration is a little cheesy, but the video makes up for it -

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And a short video of his cabin and the lake;

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And apparently I missed the memo when the movie came out – but one did – I’ll be watching it soon – here is the trailer:

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Posted by fuck0500 in Canoeing, Fishing, Hunting, Trapping

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Allagash River

Looking down Chamberlain Lake

 

The Allagash River. What image comes into your mind when you read those words? A riverman standing on the spring log drive to the mill? A fir tipped horizon on a calm lake at sunset? Class III whitewater? Or how about an American Indian watching you silently from the bank? A large trout bending your fly pole? Allagash itself seems a harsh word, invoking images of jagged dark rocks and dense seemingly impenetrable forests. At one point in history any one of those images would be true. The Allagash cuts a 100 mile ribbon from Chamberlain Lake to its confluence with the St. John. American Indians used the Allagash extensively as a travel route and  Above the Gravel Bar: The Native canoe routes of Maine is a very interesting book, and well worth the read if you live in Maine or not. The book (linked at bottom of post)  describes how and why the waterways are named the way they are, and the different routes Native Americans used.

Standing at the official put-in for the trip on the Chamberlain Lake thoroughfare is seemingly like standing at an old fork in the road. Heading to the right takes you into Telos pond, portage around Telos dam, down Webster cut (famously described by Thoreau), into Webster Lake and down Webster stream into Grand Lake Matagamon. There are gorgeous views of the mountains in Baxter Park, which is on your right going down Webster Stream. Webster Stream is wild and narrow, and should only be attempted by very accomplished paddlers. Baxter State Park maintains the campsites on Grand Lake Matagamon as well. At the end of the lake is the East Branch of the Penobscot river, which after wonderful views and lots of portages, dumps you into the Penobscot itself. Taking the left way though leads you to Chamberlain Lake, and into the heart of  the Allagash river.

Sunrise over Chamberlain Lake

 

Chamberlain lake is both beautiful, and slightly forbidding because of its sheer size. The day I set forth on Chamberlain it was windy and rainy, and the lake was like a kettle of boiling water with waves reaching up to the gunnels of the canoe. Hindsight being 20/20 I probably should have stayed at the campsite at the end of the thoroughfare and gotten an early start the next morning, but I was anxious to get started. The weather was unforgiving and began to get worse as sheets of rain blew down the lake and into my face. A good portion of the shore is rocky, and prevents an easy canoe landing. Finally I found a spot to stop and take a rest, huddled under a thicket of cedar. As the afternoon wore on, it began to clear, and by late afternoon the wind had calmed down, eventually turning to glass as I paddled along and landed at Lost Spring campsite  for the night. After dinner I went down to the shore and caught trout after trout on the flypole, right from the bank.  One of the things I find fascinating about camping , especially in Maine, is that as the night darkens and you are sitting by a campfire, lost in your thoughts, it is a timeless moment. With the loons beginning their calls, it could be any moment in history. If you want to travel through time, go camping in the remote Maine wilderness. It’s been wild and free forever. That first night on Chamberlain had that feeling.

Most guidebooks tell you to go across the lake at Ellis Brook  to Lock Dam to continue into Eagle Lake. I disagree for a couple of reasons, first being that you will miss some of the tramway. The tramway was a railway that took the logs to the mill, and was a vast improvement over booming them down the lake to the Penobscot river. At most of the campsites on the west side of Chamberlain a short walk leads you to the old railbed, which is now grown up, but still visible. Stand there and imagine the roaring of the steam engine as it passed laden with its load of logs. I wish I could have gone for a ride on one. As you go up the lake it’s a short jaunt up into the start of Allagash Stream to see the old trestle. The right side has fallen into the water, with the rails from the left decending into the depths. It’s a shorter distance now to the east side of the lake, where you will find a portage trail that is about a mile. This is the other thing you would miss if you went via lock dam. Prior to the tramway, there was a steam (donkey engine) conveyor that hauled all the logs from Eagle across to Chamberlain to be boomed up for the journey down the lake. Everything is still there in various stages of decay. A short walk into the woods reveals more, and how nature will always grow back. If memory serves it took the better part of three hours to accomplish the portage, with a special treat at the end. The locomotives that ran on the tramway are still there in the woods in all their glory. They have been somewhat restored (over time one of them had fallen over) by a local group.  To get the locomotives there, they were hauled across the thick ice during the winter.   Imagine…each one of them weighs 90 tons, looking at a chart of what weights ice can support, it would require 60 inches of ice.  The thickest I’ve ever seen was 38 inches.    It is magnificent to view, and worth spending some time poking about the area, which is a good place for lunch. These are accessible by taking the Lock dam route as well, but it’s a bit of a paddle.

 

Locomotives at Eagle Lake

Eagle Lake has an interesting story surrounding it.  In 1976 4 men claimed to have been abducted by a UFO and subject to testing by aliens.  A good story to relate around the campfire at night. Check out the story here .

 

When I left the trains to paddle across Eagle Lake, I was taught a valuable lesson about paddling big lakes. Eagle was glass when I started out, without even a ripple on its surface, or a cloud in the sky, headed for Farm Island. Suddenly and without warning, as the shore I was headed to was in view, and the shore I was coming from a good distance behind the wind came up with a vengeance. If you know anything about boating, you want your bow into the wind and into the waves. With this wind that came up it was behind me, and so I had what is called a following sea. The waves grew in size, enough so they would break over the stern and get my back wet. I was in a predicament for sure, and I was becoming more worried by the minute. The trouble with a following sea is that the waves are rolling with you, which makes it a lot easier to get swamped. I pictured the canoe swamped with water, with my gear in disarray around me, as I paddled along, quartering to the waves before each one came through. As I described it after, I swore my way across Eagle Lake. After what seemed like hours, it looked like I would make Farm Island, and it was with relief that I stepped onto its shore for the night.   Preparing to be windblown (too windy to paddle) is a must for your itinerary on this trip. The wind slowed at sunset, but did not stop through the night, and I had one more big lake to make before I got onto the river, so at three am under the moon I got up, packed, and with a last look at the Katahdin range, set out to put Eagle Lake to my stern. The wind typically picks up during the day, so I knew this was the prime time to make some distance before it got too windy to go anymore, and I didn’t stop. There is nothing like watching the sun come up from a canoe. By noontime I had made it to the end of Churchill Lake safely and stopped for the night. After setting up camp I wandered down to the sandy shore, went for a swim, and spent the afternoon napping with my feet in the cool water, watching the puffy clouds, and relaxing. All of the campsites are maintained by the Allagash Wilderness Waterway (AWW) and are great places.

The  magic thing about any remote camping trip, starts on the third day.  For the first couple of days you are “settling in” and still have some of the vestiges clinging to you of the life you are leaving behind.  Typically on day three I become free.  I deliberately usually don’t bring a watch, or a way to keep time, one of our biggest enslavements as a society.  You get to find what cycle of time fits your body the best.  When you wake up, eat, sleep all of that doesn’t matter anymore.  It’s out the window.  And it all starts on day three.   I did bring a watch on a long canoe trip once, and discovered how my rhythm compares to our society’s time.  I’m usually up and packed around 4 am, watching the sunrise from shore, or while paddling.  Lunch on a pretty spot on the river is right around 10.   Depending on if I find a spot where I just have to stay there because it’s so nice, or depending on how far I want to go that day I usually have camp set up by 1pm, afternoon snack and a nap, followed by swimming, fishing, or exploring.  Dinner around 6, and a paddle, fish, sunset watch.  A drink by the fire lost in thought and then bed around 10 or 10:30.  That’s who I am when I’m free, and without the constraints of time.  Try it – find your rhythm and see who you are when you don’t “have” to do anything but what you want.

After dinner I walked down to Churchill Dam to scout for the next morning, for I would be officially on the river in the morning, and running Chase rapids.  One of the great things about the Allagash is there is a ranger at Churchill who for a modest fee (when I was there it was $10.00) to portage all of your gear 10 miles downstream where the river opens up into Umsaskis Lake, and is well worth the price.  Chase rapids is rated a strong class II or mild Class III rapid depending on water level.  I don’t remember it being all that difficult to get through, most of the time it’s basically just dodging rocks, and exciting.  A group of Boy Scouts behind me overturned and broke a thwart.  I gave them some duct tape (a must have item to repair a canoe on a trip)  so they could get it fixed. One fascinating and exciting thing for me about running rapids  is the decision making – you make a calculated best decision with your knowledge, and you instantly know if you were right or not.  Where else do you have that instant gratification?  In life you always wonder if you are making the right decision, here on the river if you are right, you stay afloat.  If you are wrong, you get wet. It’s basic and simple principles, and I like that.     After what seems like a long time, around one of the bends is your gear on the  bank where the ranger put it.  There is still moderate current that brings you into Umsaskis.  On the right as you approach the lake is a campsite called Chisholm Brook.  I didn’t stay there, but the next time I run the river I am, what a beautiful campsite tucked away in the tall spruce and fir trees…absolutely beautiful.   After a short narrow spot you come to Long Lake, where  I stayed at Grey Brook campsite.

Morning at Long Lake

After a short piece of river, you come to Harvey Pond and then Long Lake dam, which I portaged.  It is possible to run it, although supposedly there are spikes still sticking up that can damage your canoe should you hit one, so I played it safe.  Of course, if I was thinking, there is a campsite there where it would be easy to stay since you have all of your gear out anyway.  After the dam is a good stretch of river that brings you to Round Pond, the river divides up into threads before emptying in to the pond, and the water is quick.  I think all of the separate channels are runnable, I picked the river right channel and made it safely.  I stayed at outlet campsite on the end of the pond,  before it becomes river again. A passing ranger told me about a must see firetower that was a short walk on the other side of the pond. Her definition of a short walk and mine I believe are quite different.  After I finally got to the tower it looked (to me) too rickety to climb.  I did climb halfway up and took a look around, and it was a pretty good view.  Halfway down the trail I got caught in a thunderstorm that I had to wait out before heading back to camp.

Sitting around the fire that night, a giant frog suddenly appeared just within the firelight.  I had never seen, nor have I seen since, a bigger frog.  We both sat there looking at each other for a few minutes, when I hatched an idea.  I had nightcrawlers for fishing with me, and I slowly reached in the cooler and got one out, and placed it in front of the frog.  The frog sat there for a few minutes, and just when I began to think he wasn’t interested, with lightning fast speed he grabbed the worm with both of his front legs and stuffed it in his mouth, pushing it in.  It seems it took a millisecond to happen, and then he went back to just sitting there with a blank look on his face.  I fetched him another, and then two more.  The fifth one he ignored, and then as quick as he was there, he was gone, probably thinking about how lucky he was.

The next morning started uneventfully, but just after getting settled into a good paddling stroke I came around the corner to find a big moose in the middle of the river.  The river was narrow here, and I hesitated, trying to decide what to do, and what he was going to do.  There didn’t seem to be enough comfortable room on either side of him for me to get by, so I backpaddled and waited.  He stood at looked at me for a bit, and then ate a little and then stood some more.  Some time passed and I was beginning to think I should make a go of it, when something in the woods caught his interest, and he stared intently at the opposite bank.  Shortly another moose appeared on the bank, and they looked at each other for a while.  Then, the moose on the bank turned and ran into the woods.  The one in the river started chase, running across the river on the side I had thought about getting by him on, making an incredible bow wave in front of him.  Lots of excitement that morning.  Just past Round Pond on the right is the tornado path.  I remember you have to turn around to see it, and I’m not sure what year it happened, but its on the side of a hill and you’ll know it because in the midst of all the conifers is a narrow swath of birch and maple trees.  There are occasional rapids and a beautiful stretch of river through here, I pushed hard and made it to Ramsay Ledges just before a fast moving thunderstorm.  Exploring that evening I came to a beaver dam and fished it for a bit, and had the pleasure of watching a couple of beavers come over the dam and swim right under the boat.  It was a warm July night, and after dinner I waded out into the shallow water and laid down in it, letting the current of the Allagash pass over me for a while.  During the night I was awakened to a loud splashing in the river, I stuck my head out of the tent, and shined the headlamp out onto the river to see a big moose staring at me.  She raised her ears just like a horse does, and stared at me for a few moments before proceeding upstream, now oblivious to my presence.

Upriver from Ramsay Ledges is a campsite called Cunliffe Depot.  Stop in here to see a derelict Lombard steam log hauler, invented in the early 1900′s. It was essentially a steam locomotive with skis on the front to steer, and caterpillar tracks on the back.  Truly a leviathan of the woods.

Downriver a ways is Michaud Farm, and past that you will begin to here the roar of Allagash Falls, an unrunnable falls that you portage on the right.  Start staying to the right when you hear the falls, and you will see the trail.  It’s worth spending some time at the falls for it’s beauty.

Allagash Falls

Between the Falls, and the end of your journey there are some interesting places.  The AWW gives you a free map at the beginning of your journey, with the campsites and rapids listed on it.   Look for a site called Ghost Landing bar.  During the 1800′s a large pine tree fell on and killed the man that was cutting it.   The log was found to have a hollow heart when taken taken to the water in preparation to be floated to the mill and was left on the bank.  Since then,  some folks passing down the river have reported seeing a ghost of the logger standing next to the log crying out to them to put the log in the river so his soul could rest.

Also watch for McGargle Rocks ( I wasn’t quite sure where they were) which are not a problem for canoeists, but were a big problem for loggers.  The area is named for a river driver that was killed trying to loosen a log jam.

After Allagash Falls, I stayed at Twin Brook for the night, and prepared to get back to civilization the next day.  It got really cold that night, down into the mid 40′s.  The next day brought twin brook rapids, Eliza hole rapids, and finally Casey rapids, none of which are bad, before coming around the corner to see the road at Allagash, and bringing the trip to an end.

So there you have it -you have tested your mettle, and found out what you are made of.  You have found yourself and lived as we should live. You have disappeared off the map for several days without news, phones, or other distractions other than making the trip. Congratulations.

Here’s a short video of the trip down the river I took in 1997;

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And a video of the history of the river;

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Some interesting books:



 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Posted by fuck0500 in Canoeing, Fishing, Maine Life

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